The Road to Nowhere
by sunshinesundae
Summary: Whoever said a Slytherin wouldn't sacrifice everything to protect the ones she loves? Pansy Parkinson spies for the Order, falls in love and saves the world. "You're a despicable human being," she said. "I wish you really had gotten hexed." War AU. Pansy/Fred.
1. Part I

_A/N: This is a little different to my usual stories, but I'm excited to share it with you here. The story was my entry to this year's InterHouse Fest on LiveJournal and is complete, with four parts and an epilogue, so I'll be uploading it as quickly as I can._

 _Here is my prompt from LJ user gjeangirl: **War AU. Pansy/Fred. She's his contact during the war—a spy for the Order within the DE ranks.**_

 _Although this is an AU, most canon events have occurred but began later on and/or stretched out over a longer period of time. The Battle of Hogwarts never happened, although the Death Eaters have taken over the Ministry. Hopefully, further hints of the timeline and any other changes to canon will come through as you read it! Please do drop me a review to let me know what you think._

 _Rating: M for sexual themes, profanity and one brief scene of sexual assault (not gratuitous)_

* * *

...

* * *

Pansy Parkinson paused, quill in hand, and eyed the closed door with concern.

Her boss, Corban Yaxley, was in a meeting with Lucius Malfoy and a few other lower-level Death Eaters. They were, she was disturbed to discover, discussing Andromeda Tonks and whether or not they needed to kill her.

Pansy knew this because she clearly had a death wish and had planted a Muggle listening device beneath his desk.

"She has gone too far this time." Yaxley's voice buzzed like an angry bluebottle in her ear. The man had a temper Pansy had witnessed all too many times before, and she could hear it bubbling beneath the surface now. "We must act."

"Much as I agree," came Lucius Malfoy's smoother, dulcet tones, "my sister-in-law is a generous benefactor…"

"She is harbouring fugitives!" Yaxley banged his hand on the desk, making Pansy flinch.

The wizard sat opposite gave her an odd look.

 _Spider_ , she mouthed sheepishly.

"Parkinson!" Yaxley snapped, and she jumped again. Her head jerked up to find him standing in the doorway, his blond hair scraped back in his customary braid, deep grooves in his forehead as he glared at her. "Get in here."

"Yes, sir," she murmured meekly, as she shuffled her papers into a pile and lifted a surreptitious hand to check her hair covered her earpiece.

Yaxley made an impatient sound.

" _Now_ , Parkinson."

"Of course." She fluttered her eyelashes and followed him dutifully into the office. "What can I do for you?" she asked as he sat back at his desk.

His eyes raked lewdly over her body, lingering, as they always did, on her hips and breasts. Although she was almost entirely covered—her demure work robes ran from wrist to throat to ankle—Pansy suddenly felt horribly exposed.

Not that Yaxley ever did more than look. As a pure-blood witch and daughter of a high-ranking Ministry official, Pansy was off limits, and no man could lay a finger on her without her say so.

She lifted her chin.

"What can I do for you, sir?" she repeated. She didn't miss the way Yaxley's eyes gleamed at the appellation.

"Lots of things I'm sure," he drawled, "but for now, just one. Summon Greyback and his snatchers. We have a new target."

* * *

...

* * *

As soon as the clock in her office struck five, Pansy was out of the door. She hurried home—something that took much longer now Yaxley had ordered the disconnection of the entire Floo network, save for the most important people, naturally—then Apparated straight from her living room.

Her destination was an abandoned Muggle pub, deep in the Scottish Highlands. She supposed it had once been very picturesque, set as it was above a wild sea loch. Now, though, it was almost entirely derelict, its ancient wooden beams leaning precariously to the side, the wind whistling forlornly through its boarded windows and leaky roof.

As usual, Pansy sneezed several times on arrival. No matter how many times she scourgified the room, the grime seemed to double in volume by the time she returned.

"Merlin, I hate this place," she said grumpily, kicking a large pile of crumpled velvet curtains and almost immediately regretting it when plumes of dust engulfed her head. "Motherfu—"

" _Language_ , Parkinson," a familiar voice teased from behind.

She should have realised he'd get here first. She'd activated her signal coin—a silver sickle linked by Protean charm to one of his—just before she left the Ministry, and, much to her ongoing disbelief, infamous prankster Fred Weasley had turned out to be one of the most exasperatingly punctual and reliable people she'd ever met.

He grinned at her from the shadows, hands shoved deep in his pockets, unruly red hair falling about his forehead.

She disentangled her foot from the curtains and shot him a withering glare.

"Didn't fancy cleaning up a bit?"

"Oh but I know you enjoy it so," he said, strolling across the room to meet her. Pansy glanced in disgust at the filthy fabric chairs, the cobweb-encrusted tables, the huge chunks of plaster dislodged from the ceiling.

"If I had my way," she said darkly, "I'd burn this place to the ground."

Fred chuckled and gestured to her face.

"You've got a little something… hang on." He licked his thumb and before she could stop him, swiped it across her chin. "Got it."

"Ugh." She wrenched herself away from him, scrubbing the back of her sleeve across her face and scowling up at him. "You arsehole!"

Fred let out a gust of laughter.

"Pansy, love, you wound me," he said. "Now, why did you summon me here like your personal genie, eh? I was just about to thrash Ron at Exploding Snap."

Pansy had drawn a breath, outraged, but then she remembered the reason she was here and her indignation melted away. Fred clearly realised it was serious, because the smile slipped from his face.

"What is it?" he asked, instantly no-nonsense.

"It's Andromeda," Pansy said. "She's in danger."

* * *

...

* * *

Fred didn't come back that evening. He'd listened tensely as Pansy filled him in on the snatchers' plan to infiltrate Andromeda's home in the dead of night—which night, she didn't know, but she had a pretty horrible feeling it'd be tonight—and murder the witch in her bed.

"The wards…" he had begun, but Pansy cut him off.

"Can be broken." She gave him a significant look. "You know that as well as I do."

He did. Before the Ministry fell to the Dark Lord, Pansy's job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been removing curses and other dangerous enchantments cast by criminal wizards. Now Yaxley used her to break into safe houses and intercept rebel communications.

She'd always been very good at wiling her way into things.

Armed with as much information as Pansy could give, Fred had Apparated away to organise Andromeda's escape. She just hoped he wasn't too late. Andromeda had been walking a dangerous line for a long time now, maintaining outward appearances of support for Voldemort—renouncing her murdered Muggle-born husband and their rebel daughter and son-in-law—while secretly providing money, supplies and emergency beds to the so-called Order of the Phoenix.

Pansy respected her enormously, mostly because it had been through Andromeda that she had made contact with said Order. The woman had convinced them to spirit her nephew, Draco, out of the country almost a year prior, although they had been less generous to Pansy.

"Draco lost the trust of the Death Eaters," Kingsley had explained when Pansy confronted him. "You, however, work for one of You-Know-Who's most trusted followers. You are privy to vital information…"

"Information I can give you _now_ ," she'd interrupted sharply, but the tall, dark-skinned wizard simply shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Pansy," he'd said gently but in a voice that brooked no argument. "It's not enough."

And that had been it. End of negotiations. If Pansy wanted to leave the Ministry, then she had to help topple it first.

Before he left, Fred promised to let her know Andromeda was safe. For a while, she sat on the doorstep to the pub, watching as the dying sun bathed the hills with blood-orange light. Eventually, though, when the sky grew dark and cold, and still with no word from Fred, she decided she'd better go home.

She didn't bother going to bed, simply curled up on an armchair in her living room, waiting, waiting, always waiting, for her enchanted coin to grow hot and rearrange its etchings so she'd know Fred and Andromeda had made it safely away.

It never did.

* * *

...

* * *

"Alright, darlin'?"

Pansy glanced up to see one of the better-known snatchers, Scabior, slouching over her desk. He looked particularly grubby today—smelly, too—his matted hair hanging like rats' tails around his shoulders. Tired and more worried than she felt she should be about Fred's conspicuous silence, Pansy found it difficult not to physically recoil.

"Can I help you?" she asked coolly, flicking through her papers.

"Here to see your boss, pet," he said. "He wants to congratulate me. On accounts of my work last night."

 _Last night._ Pansy's head shot up. Scabior seemed to think she was impressed that Yaxley had called him in specially, because he puffed up like a peacock.

"Oh?" she asked, forcing herself to sound aloof, barely interested, although everything inside her was straining for answers. "And what did you do to deserve such an honour?"

The snatcher planted a hand on her desk and leant conspiratorially towards her.

"Well, doll," he said with a nasty grin. "I killed a Weasley, didn't I?"

* * *

...

* * *

 _Not Fred, not Fred, please Merlin, not Fred._

Pansy's hands shook as she summoned him from the Ministry bathrooms that evening. Despite clandestine enquiries, she hadn't been able to find out for sure which Weasley the snatchers had allegedly killed, or whether one had even been killed at all. The other Order members had Apparated him and Andromeda away before they could confirm it.

"I got him right in the head," Scabior had insisted. "There's no way he could survive."

Outside the office, Pansy's fingers had clenched round her quill, her chest so tight it hurt to breathe.

She heard a creak of Yaxley's chair. She could picture him leaning back in his seat, eyeing the snatcher with a faint sneer.

"But he escaped," he said, voice very calm and very low. It was a dangerous sign, that voice of his, and Scabior proved himself not entirely stupid in recognising it. There was a pause, before he admitted nervously that yes, yes he had, but…

"And so did Andromeda Tonks."

Pansy imagined the snatcher sinking down in his chair.

"Yes," he said weakly. She felt almost sorry for him. _Almost_. If he truly had killed a Weasley, then he deserved a hex or two.

Yaxley gave him three.

The rest of the day had passed agonisingly slowly. For the second night in a row, Pansy escaped home as quickly as she could and Apparated straight to the pub.

"Fred?" She glanced wildly around the empty room, then raced into the next, and the next, swatting away cobwebs and hanging wires. "Fred? Fred?!"

Nothing. He was always here first. _Why wasn't he here first?_

Her wild search had thrown up clouds of dust that clogged in her throat and made her eyes water. Desperate for air, she stumbled through the door, out into the open scrubland. She was trembling, breathless.

Fred couldn't be dead. He just _couldn't_.

"Looking for something?" a voice asked drily.

She whirled round to see him slouched on a bench, arms folded, hair glowing red in the crisp autumnal sunshine. He knew exactly why she was so frantic; it was written plainly across his smug face.

"You"—she stared at him—"you bastard!"

"You were really worried, weren't you, love?" he teased, patting the space beside him. "Come here. You look like you need to sit down."

She remained stubbornly standing, arms folded across her chest.

"I thought you were _dead_."

"Clearly," he said. "You were screaming my name like a banshee."

Pansy narrowed her eyes at him. So he'd heard her, had he? Had it not occurred to him to put her out of her misery? No, the arrogant git had simply sat back and enjoyed it.

"I was not _screaming_ ," she said, because she hadn't been. Really.

"You were, but I knew I'd get you doing it eventually," he quipped, making her flush and scowl even harder. "Come here," he said again, cupping his eyes against the sun.

She went, although she made sure to stomp so he knew she wasn't happy about it.

"You're a despicable human being," she said as she sat. "I wish you really had gotten hexed."

"Me too," he said blithely, "but my blasted brother knocked me out of the way." Pansy looked at him, startled, but he simply held out a cellophane wrapper. "Edible Dark Mark?"

Pansy stared at the multi-coloured jelly sweets, then back up at him. His expression was casual enough—almost _too_ casual—but there was something hard about his eyes.

"No… thanks," she said, having learnt early on not to accept anything Fred claimed to be edible. He shrugged and pocketed them.

"Suit yourself."

She eyed him carefully. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and now she noticed it, a nasty scrape along his stubbly jaw. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink last night either.

"Scabior was telling the truth, wasn't he?" she asked softly. "Someone did get hit."

"George," Fred said. "Bloody idiot. Should have let me take it."

Merlin, his _twin_.

"Is he—is he okay?"

He gave a half-shrug.

"Yeah," he said, and although he spoke gruffly, Pansy could hear the pain in his voice. "Curse missed his head, thank Merlin, but took his ear clean off."

"Shit," Pansy breathed, eyes wide. Fred evidently approved of her assessment, because he flashed her a humourless smile.

"It's pretty bad," he agreed, "but he's alive. Been lapping up the attention too, the sod."

Pansy raised her eyebrows.

"As if you wouldn't do the same."

Fred snorted, turning his face up to the sun.

"Maybe. Maybe not. I'd rather not find out if you don't mind."

"If it makes you feel any better," Pansy said, eyeing his freckled profile, "Yaxley hexed the living daylights out of the snatchers for letting you get away."

"Oh yeah?" Fred cracked open an eye.

"Yeah," she confirmed. "He was hopping mad all day. Casting curses left, right and centre."

He looked at her properly then.

"Not at you, I hope," he said, eyes running over her as if checking for injury.

"Of course not," she said. It was hard to keep a trace of bitterness from creeping into her voice. "I'm his _favourite_."

Fred's gaze jerked sharply back up to hers, shoulders tensing.

"Parkinson," he said, voice dangerously quiet, "tell me he hasn't…"

"No," she said. He knew about her… _uncomfortable_ relationship with her boss, and she saw his mind go to the darkest place. "He would if he could, I think," she added. "But I'm a pure-blood and a supporter of the Dark Lord. They haven't quite sunk to preying on their own just yet."

Fred seemed to relax a little, but the deadly look in his eyes hadn't entirely dissipated.

"If he ever touches you, I swear I'll…"

It sent a little thrill through her to hear Fred threaten Yaxley with bodily harm, but she was, of course, a fierce and competent witch, entirely capable of protecting herself should it come to it.

She ran a finger up her wand.

"Believe you me," she said, "if that fucking man lays so much as a _finger_ on me, I'll hex his bollocks off and feed them to Nagini."

Fred stared at her, mouth open, eyes wide.

"Feed them… feed them to…"

"Nagini," she repeated helpfully. "I'll feed his bollocks to Nagini."

A moment as this sunk in, then perhaps the most wonderful sound she'd ever heard as Fred Weasley threw back his head and laughed like she'd never heard before.

* * *

...

* * *

"Andromeda sends her thanks," he said as they stood, eventually, to Apparate their separate ways.

Pansy glanced down, embarrassed. The gratitude in his gaze was deep, and it was doing odd things to her chest.

"Tell her I'm just glad she's safe," she said.

He touched her hand then—gently, the barest brush of warm fingers against hers. Her head lifted in surprise to find him closer than she expected, a little smile tugging at his lips.

"You did good, Parkinson," he said, then with a brief squeeze of her hand and a muted crack of Disapparition, he was gone.

* * *

...

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for reading! Please drop me a review to let me know what you thought._


	2. Part II

**PART II**

* * *

It had taken many months for Fred to trust her. The first thing he'd told her, quite brutally, had been what a fool he thought Kingsley and Andromeda were to put faith in her.

Of course, the first thing she'd told _him_ was to go fuck himself.

She remembered their school years—the havoc Fred and George had caused, the endless pranks, tricks and windups. Her _life_ was on the line, and here she was depending on a man who, as far as she knew, had never taken anything seriously in his entire existence.

Their meetings in the beginning had been tense and suspicious from both sides. Fred, in particular, had always seemed on edge, eyes darting into the shadows as if he half-expected a league of Death Eaters to leap out at any moment.

Pansy supposed she couldn't blame him for not believing her. She was a good actress and an even better Occlumens. Yaxley, for example, thought she worshipped him.

She had, of course, been rather peeved when, a few weeks in, Fred had tried to use Legilimency on her. She hadn't known he could do the spell—wandlessly and wordlessly to boot—although it wasn't the most polished attempt she'd ever encountered. Gryffindors were, after all, not renowned for their subtlety.

Endeavouring to avoid an argument, however, she'd nudged him out time and time again, hoping he'd believe he'd botched the spell and give up.

But he hadn't, and eventually she realised he wouldn't—not until he was satisfied she wasn't a double agent for the Death Eaters and she wasn't about to turn them all over to Yaxley.

If she was going to survive this, if _they_ were going to survive this, then she needed him to trust her. She needed him to know that she was telling the truth.

So, six weeks in, she sat herself opposite him in the pub's least shabby booth and placed her wand on the table between them.

"You're a Legilimens," she said. When he glanced at her, surprised, she shrugged. "You're not as subtle as you think."

"You felt it," he said sheepishly, and she smiled.

"I'll let you in," she said. "Just this once."

* * *

...

* * *

He murmured the spell out loud this time, those deep brown eyes locked on hers. Pansy felt a familiar crawling sensation at the front of her skull and fought the overwhelming urge to boot him straight back out.

She didn't though. She wanted him to trust her, after all.

So she drew a shuddering breath, and she showed him the day the Death Eaters took over the Ministry. How they'd barely even bothered to battle their way in. How they'd cut down anyone brave enough to stand in their way.

She showed him the moment when, flanked by dark wizards in black robes and silver masks, Yaxley marched into her office, imperiused her boss right before her eyes and declared himself the new head of Magical Law Enforcement.

 _Do something about the bodies_ , he'd ordered with a careless wave of his hand. Y _ou_ , he added as Pansy stood, hesitant. She'd shivered as his eyes snaked with interest over her body and an unpleasant smile stretched across his face. _Show me to my new office._

"Pansy…" Fred whispered, back in the present, but she shushed him with a hand.

She showed him her father, trembling with fear as he and the other officials pledged their allegiance to Lord Voldemort. She showed him the snatchers dragging slumped and bleeding bodies across the marbled floors of the Ministry.

She showed him her new boss as he trapped her behind her desk. As he leant over her shoulder, breath hot on her skin. As he whispered what a good girl she was, right in her ear.

She showed him her hatred, her anger, her _fear_. And then, because she felt like he'd seen too much, because it made her feel too vulnerable, too exposed, too _weak_ , she showed him an obscene and pornographic fantasy of the two of them going at it on this very table.

He huffed and jerked backwards, breaking the connection with a jolt.

"Fucking hell," he said, cheeks turning red.

She laughed, delighted, and leant back against the booth.

"Sorry. I couldn't resist."

"Merlin, Parkinson." He blinked, as if trying to clear the image, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Pansy figured she'd given him a raging hard on.

She let her eyes drift over him—the broad, solid shoulders, the way his jumper pulled taut across his wide chest, the smooth freckled skin of his forearms beneath sleeves rolled to the elbow. When her gaze finally returned to his face, she saw his eyes had grown hot. His cheeks were still flushed, although whether that was from embarrassment or arousal she wasn't sure.

She'd only imagined the two of them together to tease him, but in that instant, she realised she found the thought rather… intriguing.

Even now, more than half a year later—now she knew his kindness, his loyalty, how fiercely he protected the ones he loved—she still did.

* * *

...

* * *

"Yaxley is growing suspicious," she said.

It had been a month since Andromeda's narrow escape, and she and Fred were sat side-by-side on the pub steps, looking out over the grey waters of the loch and the sweeping hills beyond.

"Of you?" he asked.

"No, of course not. He doesn't think I'm bright enough." She squinted up at the pale cloudless sky, pulled her collar up around her neck as the brisk autumn breeze grew just a little stronger. "He knows someone's leaking information though."

"I can't pull you out," Fred said quietly. "Not yet."

High above, a bird of prey hovered, a buzzard, its great wings outstretched. She watched it for a moment, part of her wishing she could simply fly away, part of her finding the thought of leaving her home—leaving _Fred_ —entirely inconceivable.

"I know," is all she said.

He didn't reply, and when she glanced at him, he was watching the bird too, something slightly wistful in his expression.

He had a hard profile, she realised as she studied him. Age and adversity had chiselled his features into sharper angles than she remembered from their school days—although to be honest, he'd been two years older and she hadn't known him as much more than an infamous prankster, an older boy to giggle about with her friends.

But he'd always been attractive. Not quite beautiful, with a nose that was ever so slightly too big, with a mouth that was just a little too wide. But attractive, certainly, and never more so now, as they sat together, wrapped up in several layers of jumpers and coats and scarves, his cheeks pink with cold.

She wanted to run a finger along that tense line of his jaw, until it loosened under her touch. She wanted, she realised with a jolt, to brush her lips across his until they softened. To stretch her body out against his until the long, taut lines of his limbs melted into her.

She shifted closer on the step, almost without realising it, then stopped. Because Merlin help her, her life was complicated enough without snogging her handler.

"What will you do after the war?" she asked quietly to snap herself out of it. "Go back to your shop?"

His eyes flickered towards her.

"I don't—" He hesitated. "I don't know." There was a trace of sadness in his voice, and Pansy knew why.

The joke shop he and George owned on Diagon Alley had been attacked by Death Eaters in the first few months of the war. Luckily, he and his twin had escaped, but the shop now lay a burnt out shell—everything in it, all their hard work, completely destroyed.

"George wants to," he said. "He and Hermione have all these plans."

 _Hermione?_ Pansy gave him a questioning look.

"Did I never tell you?" He let out a short laugh. "They got married last summer. Expecting a baby now too."

She raised her eyebrows. Granger and George, huh? She'd always figured the know-it-all had been having it off with Fred's younger brother, Ron.

"Are they still in the country?" she asked. She could imagine just how terrifying it would be to bring a child into the world as it was now. If it was her, she'd have left in a heartbeat.

"Yeah." Fred pursed his lips. "I know George wants to take her away, but she's having none of it."

"That sounds like Granger," she said, and he smiled—a little bleakly, she thought.

"Yeah. Would be a shame to lose them if they did leave though. We need all the help we can get."

His words were flippant enough, but Pansy felt her stomach twist all the same.

The Death Eaters spoke publicly of the resistance as a mere bug, an inconvenience, to be squashed, but Pansy knew—from Fred, from Yaxley, from overheard conversations behind closed doors—that they were a real threat to the Dark Lord's tenuous hold on power.

At least they had been. And they had to stay that way. They just _had_ to. She wasn't sure what she'd do if they weren't.

"Is it really that bad?" she asked.

Fred shrugged, buried his nose briefly in his scarf.

"It's better with you," he said simply.

Her eyes slid to his, and he seemed to realise how…s _ignificant_ that sounded. He flushed slightly and gave her a sheepish smirk.

"What about you?" he asked. "What will you do?"

He was clearly trying to change the subject. Pansy considered pursuing it, but decided (very charitably, she thought) to let him off.

"Oh, I'll go away," she said, gaze returning to the open sky, where the bird was still hovering. "Somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. Where I can forget all of this, you know?"

She saw Fred nod out of the corner of her eye as, high above them, the bird suddenly dived, rocketing to the ground. Moments later, it soared back upwards, something small and frantically wriggling in its claws, and Pansy felt a deep chill, right to her very bones.

"If, of course," she said absently, "Yaxley doesn't kill me first."

* * *

...

* * *

It appeared Pansy's fears were justified because, several days later, Bellatrix Lestrange swept into the department, a maniacal gleam in her eye.

"It seems," she announced as the room fell utterly silent, "that we have a _mole_ in the Ministry."

Pansy squashed a flicker of alarm as Voldemort's most sadistic follower zeroed in on her.

"You," she said, pointing her wand straight at Pansy's chest. "I want to question every witch and wizard in this room. Make it happen."

Pansy hastened to obey. One by one her colleagues vanished into Yaxley's office—some openly quaking with fear. Without fail, each resurfaced pale-faced and sweating but very much alive. Pansy didn't dare eavesdrop, but evidently, Bellatrix hadn't found anything incriminating.

Eventually, though, there was no one left to interrogate but Pansy. Her heart thumped hard as she stepped, slowly, towards what could very possibly be her final moments.

"Close the door," Bellatrix said. The woman was perched nonchalantly on Yaxley's desk, legs crossed, nails tapping on the wood. Yaxley himself was sat behind her, in his large leather chair, his back ram-rod straight, his expression tight.

He knew the consequences should a spy be discovered in his department.

"Please," Bellatrix purred, gesturing towards the solitary chair in the centre of the room. "Sit."

Pansy swallowed and did as she was told.

"Really," Yaxley said stiffly. "There's no way Ms Parkinson…"

"Silence!" Bellatrix shrieked, and Pansy flinched. The older witch didn't miss it; her onyx eyes snapped instantly to her newest victim, and a smirk traced her lips. "Pansy, is it?" she asked softly.

When Pansy nodded, she slipped off the desk, long lacy skirt swaying.

" _Pansy_ ," she sing-songed. "Strange things have been going on here in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Have they?" Pansy asked, heartened to hear her voice stay steady.

"Oh yes." Bellatrix ran her wand through her long, gloved fingers and stepped deliberately towards her. "Empty safe houses, dead Death Eaters. It's almost as if they knew we were coming…"

She stopped right in front of Pansy and touched her wand lightly to the younger woman's temple.

"Was it you, lovely?" she murmured, bending down so her lips brushed Pansy's ear. " _Legilimens_."

Pansy's eyes flickered shut as the witch burrowed into her mind, snatching up thoughts, scanning them, then tossing them aside like screwed up paper. She clenched her hand around the arm of the chair, almost shaking with the effort of holding back her most incriminating memories while simultaneously convincing Bellatrix she wasn't.

She must have been successful though, because there was no crippling pain, no flash of green light.

"Hm," Bellatrix said, straightening to her full height. "Looks like your department's in the clear, Yaxley."

Pansy's boss leant back in his chair, relief etched in his brow.

"I told you it must be the snatchers."

"Yes," Bellatrix said thoughtfully, her eyes raking over Pansy. There was something in the witch's gaze—something distrustful—and Pansy held her breath. But then she was swanning away, and Pansy felt almost giddy with the relief of it.

But her relief was short-lived; Bellatrix paused in the doorway and shot Yaxley a lazy smile.

"I'd keep an eye on this one, Yaxley," she warned playfully. "She's a lot smarter than you think."

And then, bait laid, she was gone. A flutter of dark lace and wild hair and the loud slam of the door.

Silence.

Pansy sat, frozen, in her chair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yaxley lean forward, fingers steepled in front of his face. When she dared glance his way, she realised his pale blue eyes were narrowed.

He looked… suspicious. Suspicious of Pansy in a way he'd never been before. A shiver ran up her spine as she imagined what he'd do to her—how brutally he'd hurt her—if he ever discovered _she_ was the mole…

 _No._ She pushed the thought firmly aside. If Bellatrix had seen the truth, she told herself, then she'd already be dead. Whatever the witch had found hadn't incriminated Pansy in the recent leaks of information.

She cleared her throat and stood.

"Well, if you don't need anything else…" When Yaxley shook his head, she smiled nervously. "Alright then."

She'd almost made it safely away when she sensed movement behind her.

She turned, but it was too late. Before she could react, Yaxley had backed her into the door, his much larger body pressing her back into the wood.

She went instinctively for her wand, but he caught her wrist and pinned it down by her side.

"Wha—" she gasped, but stopped short as she saw the look of intent in his eye.

He leant down, pressed his mouth to her ear.

"What are you doing, hm?" he hissed. "What did Bellatrix see?"

"I didn't—" She inhaled sharply. " _Nothing_."

She felt his fingers press into her hip and tried not to flinch.

"No one can touch a pure-blood," he murmured, "but a pure-blood _traitor_ , well…" He thrust into her and she realised, with horror, that he was _hard_. "That's a different story entirely."

A wave of nausea so strong that for a moment, she couldn't move, couldn't speak. But then she found her steel and lifted her chin.

"Get off me," she said sharply.

He did so, and it was to Pansy's everlasting relief that it was with nothing more than a sneer.

" _There_ it is," he said. "And here I was thinking what an obliging little witch you were."

"My father—" she began, but he cut her short, slamming a palm into the door beside her head and making her recoil.

"Your father is a _puppet_ ," he hissed, face inches from her. "You think he can protect you? You think he could stop me if the Dark Lord let me have you?"

Pansy shrank away. She'd seen Yaxley's temper—although she'd never before been on the receiving end, and she didn't know what to do.

 _Survive_ , a little voice in her head told her. _Just survive._

She swallowed.

"I've done nothing wrong," she said, voice splintering. "Bellatrix searched my mind. She found nothing."

His lip curled but he didn't reply. She forced herself to appear small and frightened—not particularly difficult when he had her up against the door again, when she didn't have much chance of stopping him should he decide to hurt her—and looked up at him with wide, beseeching eyes.

"I do as I'm told," she whispered. "Always."

He held her gaze for a long, terrifying moment, then those harsh, blunt features twisted into a scowl and he pulled suddenly away.

"Fine," he said shortly. "Go finish your work."

She inclined her head, trying not to show how hard her stomach was roiling.

"Yes, sir," she murmured as meekly as she could manage, hoping he'd just step back, just let her open the door and slip away.

He did so, fortunately, but not without one final warning.

"I'll be watching you, Parkinson," he snapped, turning away. "Now get out of my office."

* * *

...

* * *

Pansy was still shaking when she summoned Fred and Apparated to the pub that evening. Of course he was there before her. He was always there before her.

"Really, Parkinson," he joked as he crossed the room, "if you're so desperate to see me, all you have to do is ask…"

He saw her white face and stopped dead.

"What happened?" he asked. Tears pooled in her eyes at the concern in his voice. "Pansy?" he asked urgently, closing the space between them to grab her arms. "What happened?"

He was nothing, _nothing_ , like Yaxley, but his hands on her brought it all back like the burst of a dam. She lurched backwards, tearing herself from his grasp like he'd burnt her.

"Please," she choked. "Please don't touch me."

Hurt passed fleetingly across his face, before he realised—Salazar, she saw the moment he realised—and then she'd never seen him look so furious.

" _Yaxley_ ," he snarled.

"It's not what you think," she said, crying openly now. "He didn't… he didn't hurt me."

Fred's hands stretched towards her, then stopped and clenched into fists. She didn't know whether it was because he wanted to hold her, or because he wanted to murder the man that had made it so he couldn't.

"What happened?" he asked, voice deadly calm.

She told him. All of it. Fred's eyes—usually so warm, so kind—grew harder and harder as she talked, but he didn't interrupt. He didn't try to touch her again either. She didn't know whether to be grateful or disappointed.

But as she choked out her tale, she realised she knew one thing. Every time she thought of Yaxley—the look on his face, the feel of his hands on her skin, the heat of his breath on her throat—it grew clearer in her mind.

"I can't—I can't _do_ this anymore," she whispered.

Fred's face twisted.

"I can't pull you out," he said, raking a hand through his unruly hair. "I spoke to Kingsley. He… they—they won't let me."

She closed her eyes, felt the tears trickle out from beneath her lashes.

She had thought as much. And that left her with only one choice.

"Then I'm out," she said. "I'm sorry, Fred, but I can't risk my life like this. Not even for you."

* * *

...

* * *

He'd tried to change her mind, of course, but she was adamant. Suddenly cold to her core, she wrapped her coat even more tightly around herself, tried in the briefest of moments to commit his face to memory, then vanished without another word.

Weeks passed, and winter set in with a vengeance. Pansy carried on her life as before, trudging through rain and slush to get to the Ministry, then back again every evening. She kept her head down, got on with her work, and did all she could to avoid news of the Order and Yaxley's plans to destroy it.

Fred tried to contact her. Many times. But he didn't know where she lived, and there was no way he'd ever risk showing his face at the Ministry, so all he could do was transfigure his coin and hope she'd come to meet him.

She didn't though. Simply sat in her bleak, empty kitchen and spun the coin on the table until it was nothing but a silver blur.

She should throw it away. Send it to the bottom of a lake. Set it on fire. Do _something_ , so she could escape this limbo and move on with her life. She decided a hundred times that she should.

But she never did.


	3. Part III

**PART III**

* * *

"Parkinson." Yaxley stopped in front of her desk.

It had been three months since their confrontation in his office, since Pansy quit her life as a Ministry mole, and things had settled down. He hadn't tried to touch her again. Neither had he made any further threats. Bellatrix was, of course, still searching for her spy, but thankfully, the spotlight had shifted from Pansy.

She looked up expectantly to find him scowling down at her.

"Get your coat," he said. "We need you."

* * *

...

* * *

Yaxley, she discovered, had received an anonymous tip about an Order safe house in the Lake District. Rowle and Macnair had been sent at the crack of dawn to scout it out but found the whole site heavily warded. Pansy was surprised, reckless oafs that they were, that they didn't attempt to _blast_ their way through, but then again, Yaxley's wrath was something even the most hardened Death Eaters endeavoured to avoid.

The hefty layer of wards indicated, however, that someone was indeed present, so Yaxley sent Pansy along with several other Death Eaters to break in and detain whoever was inside.

Apparition didn't usually make Pansy sick, but it was with a roll of nausea and wobbly knees that she landed on the grey shingle beach. It was still only early, and a thick layer of mist lay low on the lake. It would be the perfect cover, she realised with a sinking heart.

The Order wouldn't know what hit them.

"Ah. It's our prettiest curse breaker," Rowle said with a smarmy grin. He'd been waiting for her on the beach and now he removed his mask to look her up and down.

Pansy ignored him. She had bigger concerns, after all.

"Where's the house?"

"Not far." The Death Eater broke off his leering to gesture at a steep incline covered with dry grass and shrubs. "Just over the top of that bank."

Beyond its protective enchantments, the safe house simply looked like a derelict boat house. It extended out over the murky lake on precarious stilts, mould creeping up its white-washed walls, several slats missing from its roof.

Pansy and the Death Eaters remained hidden, using the long grass and fog for cover as they surrounded the boat house and she felt out the wards.

They were strong, certainly, but Pansy was stronger. She let her magic swell out along the invisible wall until she found the smallest fissure—the tiniest chink—and prepared to implode the entire barrier.

Then she hesitated.

There was someone _in_ that house. There had to be. No one would weave such intricate enchantments to protect an empty boat house.

What… what if it was _Fred_? Or Draco? Or Andromeda? Her stomach churned at the thought.

Should she pretend she couldn't break the wards? Should she do it badly, warn the occupants, give them time to escape?

"Parkinson," Macnair hissed from his position several feet to her left. "What's taking so long?"

Yaxley would kill her on the spot; she knew it for sure. If anyone had even the slightest suspicion that she'd done it on purpose, that she'd deliberately let the rebels slip through their grasp, she'd be executed without a moment's hesitation.

Fred would do it anyway. He would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat, Death Eaters be damned. But as much as she might wish it, Pansy knew she was no Fred. She was no hero. She was no Gryffindor.

 _I'm sorry_ , she thought to the people inside, and then she shattered the wards.

* * *

...

* * *

She thought it was Fred when they dragged him out.

She started forward, panic clogging in her throat, but then Rowle threw him to the ground and she saw he was missing an ear.

 _George._

A wave of relief washed over her, followed swiftly by guilt, thick and sour, as Fred's brother, Fred's _other half_ , rolled over onto is stomach and retched blood into the grass. Rowle responded with a brutal kick to his ribs.

"Look what we found," Macnair cackled, and Pansy turned to see him hauling a heavily pregnant Hermione Granger by her hair. She was struggling, hissing and writhing like a wild cat. At the sight of her, George tried to get up but was floored when Rowle slammed a boot into his back.

"Search the house," he instructed the other Death Eaters, "and secure the perimeter."

As they obeyed, vanishing into the house and over the hill, he glanced down at the man on the ground.

" _Crucio_ ," he said, casually, as if commenting on the weather. George's whole body seized. He let out a choked cry that clenched around Pansy's lungs like a fist.

He looked just like his brother. It could be Fred, bleeding into the dirt.

"You want a little more, Weasley?" Rowle asked, then kicked him, hard, in the stomach. " _Crucio_."

"Stop it!" Hermione cried. She lunged towards her husband, only for Macnair to drag her back. "Please," she begged. "Please stop it."

Macnair knotted his fist even tighter in her hair and forced her to still with a wand—the woman's own, Pansy realised—to her throat.

"Calm down, darling," he crooned in her ear. "You'll get your turn soon enough."

Pansy eyes snapped up in shock. The woman was _pregnant_. They surely weren't planning to…

"You won't fucking touch her," George spat.

"Oh?" Rowle inquired gently. "Why don't you watch us?"

He pointed his wand at Granger. The witch's eyes grew wide, and she gave a sharp tug against Macnair's steely grip.

 _They weren't…_ Pansy's fingers tightened on her wand. _T_ _hey wouldn't…_

Rowle gave a nasty smile and opened his mouth.

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

The blaze of green light hit the Death Eater squarely in the chest.

The world seemed to slow, as for the briefest of instants, Rowle simply hung there, eyes widened in utter surprise.

But then he dropped, dead before he hit the dirt.

 _Shit._

All eyes swivelled to Pansy, who lowered her wand hand and took a hesitant step back. A great roaring sound rose up in her ears as she realised the enormity of what she'd done.

Oh Merlin, what had she done?

Macnair recovered first; he threw Granger to the ground, his face twisting with malice.

"You little _bitch_ ," he hissed, starting towards her.

Pansy took another step back, raising her wand defensively. She was stupid— _stupid, stupid, stupid_ —but she wouldn't go down without a fight.

"You wait," the furious Death Eater threatened. "You just wait till I get my hands on you."

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

This time, the killing curse didn't come from her. Macnair neither.

Pansy flinched as the green flash engulfed them. She heard a dull thud and opened her eyes to see the Death Eater slumped on the ground before her.

Several yards behind him knelt George Weasley, an arm around his wife, wand aimed right at Pansy. A beat, and then he dropped his hand.

"What—" His eyes crept towards Rowle. "What… _how_ …"

"It wasn't for you," Pansy said rudely. And it hadn't been really. It had been his brother on her mind when she'd cast the Unforgivable.

He and his wife watched, silent, as she retrieved Hermione's wand from the fallen Death Eater and stomped over.

"Here," she said, holding it out. When the witch paused, she let out a noise of frustration. "Take it."

She did, and Pansy took a few steps back, shaking out her robe. "Now hex me," she ordered. "Something nasty, or they'll be suspicious."

When George hesitated, she turned her attention to Granger. The woman was almost entirely unrecognisable from their school days. Aside from the enormous belly, her muddy brown hair had been hacked short to her shoulders, springing out from her head in mad corkscrew curls, and her face was thinner, sharper.

Pansy remembered the way she used to torment her at Hogwarts—figured that there had to be animosity there, that Hermione had to hate her still, even after all these years—and sneered.

"To think _you_ did something so stupid as get yourself knocked up in the middle of a war," she said nastily. "Frankly," she added when the witch stared at her, taken aback, "your hair is such an abomination, I'm surprised you managed to find a man willing to shag you in the first place."

And that was enough. Hermione's face flushed an angry red, and she flung out her wand hand.

" _Sectumsempra_."

* * *

...

* * *

Pansy was in St Mungo's for more than a week. The curse had slashed her skin to ribbons, and she'd lost a lot of blood—enough to make it touch-and-go for a few hours, the healers had told her upon her return to consciousness. Dark spell that it was, too, the scarring might never fully fade.

The first chance she got, alone in the hospital room, she pushed the bedsheets down to her ankles, twisted her flimsy hospital robes up around her chest and examined the network of shiny pink lines crisscrossing her skin.

Well, she thought with grudging admiration, she _had_ asked for it.

The spiteful cow.

She presumed said spiteful cow and her husband had made it safely away. As she'd lain, barely conscious in a growing pool of blood, she'd heard the outraged shouts of Death Eaters, the sizzle of curses flying, then the faint crack of Apparition. The next thing she knew she was in St Mungo's, a needle in her arm, healers pumping potions straight into her veins.

She didn't get many visitors—most of them her work colleagues, although her father deigned to visit once. She wasn't particularly surprised; she loved him, of course, but they had never been particularly close, even before he pledged allegiance to the Dark Lord.

Blaise Zabini was the only visitor from outside her department. He worked for her father as a clerk, and had done so since they left school five years prior. Like her, he'd kept his head down, done as he was told and survived thus far.

"Who was it?" he'd asked, lounging regally in a chair beside her bed. "At the safe house, I mean."

Pansy traced her finger across her belly where she knew, beneath the blankets, ran a particularly nasty scar.

"Granger," she said absently. "And that Weasel twin she married."

Blaise sat up a little, dark eyes alight with interest.

"Married?"

Pansy's finger stilled as she realised what she'd said. Rebel nuptials were, after all, not publicised in _Witch Weekly_.

She gave her friend a cool glance.

"Didn't you know?" she asked as nonchalantly as she could manage lying flat on her back and hooked up to a drip. "We got intel that she married George Weasley."

"Interesting," Blaise murmured, subsiding into his seat. "Very interesting indeed."

He hadn't questioned her any further after that, but she'd caught him eyeing her thoughtfully once or twice. She hoped he didn't suspect anything, although if he did, she hoped she could trust him with it.

Blaise managed to visit a couple times more, but no one else found the time. The days ticked by very slowly as Pansy lay hour after hour, with nothing to occupy her but her own thoughts.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw a burst of green light and Rowle's black-clad body hit the ground. She saw George Weasley cough up blood into the dirt. She saw a furious Hermione aim her wand at her chest.

But she didn't regret saving them. Not when she knew what it would do to Fred if he'd lost his twin. It would break him. Irreparably.

And all she'd endured—Bellatrix's interrogation, Yaxley's assault, months and months on the knife edge—it would all be for nothing.

* * *

...

* * *

It was ten whole days after that fateful morning at the boathouse before they finally let her out of the hospital. There was no one to collect her, not that she needed anyone, so she travelled home alone.

Her flat, when she let herself in, was gloomy and cold. She opened the curtains, let the sunshine come streaming through, but it didn't make a difference. She wasn't sure anything would.

In the kitchen lay her enchanted silver sickle, abandoned, on her countertop. She wondered if Fred had attempted to signal her while she was in the hospital, if he even _knew_ she was in the hospital at all.

As she turned it over in her hand, it began to grow warm. The dragon, frozen in flight on its shiny surface, flapped its wings and swooped in a triple loop.

 _Pansy._ Her name glowed in silver. _Pansy, please._

Two weeks ago, she'd have put it down, turned away. But tonight, she didn't hesitate, Apparating to the pub without even removing her coat.

The place looked much the same: dusty, dark, tumbledown. She didn't know why, but she'd expected it to be different somehow.

 _She_ felt different.

He was here. Of course he was here. Pacing in the shadows, hand in his hair, frustration on his face. He stopped mid-step when he saw her, hand dropping to his side as he stared, dumbstruck. The sight of him in his well-worn jumper and scruffy corduroys, so familiar, so _Fred_ , took her breath away, and she could do nothing but gaze back.

He looked like he couldn't quite believe she was here. She supposed she couldn't blame him; she'd been ignoring him for months.

She bit her lip, gave an embarrassed sort of shrug.

"You called?"

Fred's mouth quirked up, then the next thing she knew, he'd covered the distance between them and wrapped her in his arms. He was warm and solid, and after the briefest stiffening of her spine, Pansy let herself melt into him.

"You came," he murmured into her hair. "You came."

He smelled so good. Like pine and something sharp like lemon. Pansy fisted her hands in his jumper, pressed her face into his neck and inhaled.

But then he pulled back and gave her a sharp shake.

"Merlin, Pansy. Do you have any idea how worried I've been? I thought you were dead!"

She gawped at him, a little startled.

"But I'm not," she said stupidly.

"I know you're not _now_ , you daft witch," he said, voice a warm mingle of affection and exasperation. "But I didn't know before. All I knew was that you'd killed a Death Eater and saved my brother." He cupped her cheek. "And then I kept calling and calling, and you never came."

Pansy leant into his hand. He looked so tired, dark smudges beneath his eyes, red hair rumpled and sticking up at all angles. She wondered how long he'd been here. How long he'd waited.

 _For her._

"You can thank your sodding sister-in-law for that," she said. "Whatever the hell that spell was, it was dark."

She'd said it drily, but his mouth hardened to a thin line, a cloud crossing his face.

"I know," he said ominously. "She told me."

"I did ask for it," Pansy said, although the dark timbre to his voice sent shivers up her spine. "And it worked. Yaxley didn't doubt for a second she was trying to kill me with it."

"Knowing Hermione," Fred said with a sigh, "she probably was." He smoothed a thumb across her cheekbone, eyes softening. "You're sure he doesn't suspect?"

Pansy reached up to touch his hand.

"Positive."

"And he hasn't…" He stopped abruptly, mouth tightening once more. "He hasn't touched you since…?"

She was glad he didn't say it—just the memory of it, the mere ghost of Yaxley's hands on her body, made her tremble.

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Fred let out a soft exhalation, ducking down to let his forehead rest against hers.

"Good," he murmured, eyes fluttering closed. "I was so worried."

He was close—close enough to count the freckles dusting his nose, close enough to see the near translucent lashes resting against his cheeks. Pansy reached up, let her hand trace the skin of his jaw. He'd let his stubble grow in. Not much, but more than she'd ever seen him let it. She ran her fingers along its delicious texture, wondered what it would feel like on her skin if he kissed her lips, if he kissed her body.

The thought sent hot little sparks right the way through her. She drew a shuddering breath, loud in the silent room, and let her eyes flicker shut. He responded with a hand to her hip, drawing her closer until her body met his.

"Fred," she whispered unsteadily. "Fred, please."

He lifted his head then with a noise that sounded a lot like reluctance. Her eyes snapped open to find him gazing down at her, agonised conflict written plainly across his face. Heartened at the depth of lust in his eyes, she grasped his jumper at the hem and tugged him closer.

"Please," she whispered desperately. " _Fred_."

A soft groan escaped his lips, before they crashed down on hers.

* * *

...

* * *

The kiss escalated rapidly. One second Pansy was curving into him, fingers pushing into his hair. The next he was tugging her with him to an armchair, gently coaxing her to straddle his lap.

His mouth found her throat, and she gasped, head lolling back as his beard scraped her sensitive skin.

"Pansy, love." His voice was rough, low, pooling in the darkest depths of her body. She arched into him, letting her hands slip down his chest, savouring the feel of his solid muscles beneath the woolly fabric of his jumper.

 _His_ hands, meanwhile, felt like they were everywhere at once; sliding down her hips, curving round her bum, tugging up her skirt. But still, she needed more. She slid a hand down, found the hard bulge at the front of his trousers and palmed him until he grunted and caught her wrist.

"Pansy," he said, a warning. She let him guide her hand back up, flattened it against the muscled slope of his shoulder. But then when he kissed her again, she sank down onto him, aligning herself with his erection.

He broke the kiss with a sharp huff and a curse. She ground down on him again, the friction only serving to deepen the ache in her belly.

"Pansy," he choked out, catching her hip, forcing her to still. "We can't… We shouldn't…"

It was a valiant effort to be sure. Pansy cupped his face in her hands, let her thumbs caress his skin.

"I need this," she murmured. "I need _you_."

Surrender sparked hot and dark in his eyes, and he kissed her roughly on the mouth.

* * *

...

* * *

They met regularly after that. Sometimes, they managed to reign themselves in, took care of duty first as Pansy resumed her covert observations at the Ministry. Most of the time, though, they couldn't wait—all hands and mouths the minute she Apparated in, until he was panting and she was gasping and their clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

He had her on every available surface: bent over the counter, laid flat on the pool table, pushed up against the wall. On one memorable Sunday morning, she lay beneath him in the thin Scottish sunlight, back arching, fingers clawing in the grass as he thrust into her. She had been so loud, so liberated, and he had teased her afterwards as she lay slumped against his chest.

"Didn't I tell you you'd be screaming my name?" he'd asked, pushing her sweaty hair back from her face. She'd retaliated by kissing her way down his body, until she took him in her mouth and he'd _growled_ her name, and begged and groaned it and much more besides.

When she wasn't with him, she craved him. His touch. His humour. His heat. The days at the Ministry dragged even longer than they had before, as she sat at her desk, counting down the minutes until she could taste him again. The moment the clock struck five, she was gone, a flurry of robes and the crack of Apparition as she hurried to meet him.

When he unbuttoned her blouse, when he slipped it from her shoulders, when he pressed a trail of kisses down her breastbone, she could almost forget the world was at war.

She could almost forget that, at any moment, she could lose him forever.

"Where do you go," Blaise asked one day, after he'd witnessed her dash down the corridor, "that makes you smile like that?"

Pansy knew she should be more careful, that she shouldn't give anyone any reason to suspect her, but she couldn't help herself.

"Oh," she said, thinking of the tumbledown building in the mountains, and the man she knew waited there for her. "Nowhere, really."


	4. Part IV

_A/N: Thanks for the lovely comments so far. Enjoy x_

* * *

 **PART IV**

* * *

Pansy had never been happy before without it coming to a swift and jarring end.

Her sheltered childhood had ended with the death of her mother, the year before she began Hogwarts. And her final year at the school, when she'd been just eighteen, starry-eyed and expectant with the world at her feet, she'd watched it all slip away as the country plunged into war.

So when she realised she was dreaming of a future with Fred, when she realised that she wanted it more than anything in the world, when she realised that she was happier now than she had ever been in her whole entire life, she knew it had to come to an end.

She just didn't think it would be so soon.

* * *

...

* * *

"Harry found all the horcruxes," Fred said quietly, completely out of the blue.

It was quarter to midnight, one blustery night in March, and Pansy was curled up in his lap in the pub's one surviving armchair.

She lifted her head from his chest to blink up at him.

"What?"

"The horcruxes?" He arched a brow. "You know, creepy as hell things You-Know-Who stuffs his soul into?"

She did know. Fred had explained it all many months ago, when the Order found and destroyed the fifth, Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem. Fred had, of course, cracked several jokes about the Dark Lord's pretty tiara, which had ebbed the rolling nausea somewhat.

But now they'd found the last, and Pansy knew what it meant.

She dropped her cheek to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear, trying to ignore the howl of the wind through the broken roof.

"You're going to take the Ministry."

* * *

...

* * *

Fred wouldn't tell her when. He made her hand over her enchanted coin, murmured a spell she didn't recognise, then grinned sheepishly when she gave him a suspicious scowl.

"So I can find you," he said, "when the fighting begins."

He'd asked her all sorts of questions about the Ministry, her department in particular—access points, escape routes, who worked where. She told him about Yaxley's private Floo, which made him narrow his eyes and mutter something under his breath.

"You get somewhere safe the minute you know we're there," he said as they stood up to leave. "I don't want you fighting."

"I'm perfectly capable," she said, affronted.

He chuckled and brushed his fingers through her fringe.

"I know," he said. "Believe me, love, I do. But no one else in the Order knows you're on our side. You could get caught in the crossfire."

Pansy realised reluctantly that this was true. Fred had promised they were going to keep casualties to the minimum, but the attack would be fast, and from all angles. It would be easy for the Order to mistake her for the enemy. Not to mention what the Death Eaters would do to her if they realised she was fighting _against_ them.

"Fine," she said. "I'll hide like a coward."

He must have heard the sour note in her voice, because he caught her face in his hands, tilted it up so he could meet her gaze.

"Don't you realise how much you've _done_ for us?" he asked softly. His voice was full of… of something Pansy couldn't name but that swelled her heart nonetheless. When she glanced down, embarrassed at the depth of her emotion, he ran his thumb across her eyelashes.

"You've sacrificed so much more than we ever asked," he murmured, "and I've had to stand by and do nothing but watch. Every time."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then tugged her in for a hug that felt, inexplicably, like it could possibly be their last.

"Let me protect you, Pansy," he whispered into her hair. "Just this once."

* * *

...

* * *

It happened four days later. Sod's law, Pansy was not safely tucked away in her office, but in the foyer, having been sent by Yaxley on an errand. She was hurrying back to the second floor, papers in hand, when with a blinding flash of light and a thunderous rumble, all hell broke loose.

She dove to the ground as curses began to fly.

 _Somewhere safe_ , Fred had said. She glanced wildly around, but she could see nothing but running feet, the flap of robes, papers flying everywhere. In a word, _chaos_.

She managed to crawl the short distance to the towering Magic is Might statue, where she hid, breathless, her back against the stone.

Her options, she realised dismally, were few. Either wait here for Fred, or woman the hell up and get herself out of this mess.

A loud crack from way above, as a bolt of red light toppled the mighty granite wizard from his throne. A large chunk of stone missed Pansy by inches, and decision made for her, she scrambled to her feet and took off across the room.

Around her, people battled and fell. Most, however, seemed to be trying to flee. Pansy blocked a few wayward hexes, weaving in and out of falling bodies, feeling shattered glass and other debris crunch beneath her feet.

Through the smoke, she spotted an alcove, sheltered by a thick velvet curtain, and veered off towards it. She reached it just in time—white-hot flames of magic lapped at the ends of her robes as she threw herself inside.

She'd barely managed to catch her breath, when something moved swiftly in the gloom. Pansy responded instinctively and found herself wand to wand with Hermione Granger.

" _You_ ," she snapped.

Hermione raised her eyebrows, defiant, but said nothing. A moment, long and tense, as the two witches glared at one another.

And then Hermione dropped her wand.

Pansy watched suspiciously as the woman turned and limped a little further into the recess to press her back against the wall and slide weakly to the ground.

She'd been hit. Badly, considering the amount of blood seeping across her now almost flat belly.

Pansy warded the alcove to stop any uninvited visitors and followed her into the shadows.

"Congrats," she said drily as she knelt beside her. "On the baby," she added when Hermione's eyes slid to hers, confused. "What was it?"

"Girl," she said with a grimace. "We called her Rose."

" _Rose_?" Pansy was unimpressed. She ducked down to examine the wound. "What an insipid name."

Hermione snorted.

"Right. Coming from a woman named _Pansy_."

Pansy acknowledged this with a little smirk and a dip of her head. The witch did have a point.

"What happened?" she asked, although she already had a fairly good idea.

"What do you think?" Hermione said flatly. "One of your charming compatriots." She'd gone very pale, her skin worryingly waxy, and Pansy realised they needed outside help. She'd never been much good at healing magic.

She sat back on her heels.

"Is there someone who can fix this?"

"Hannah Abbott," Hermione said with effort. "But she was supposed to take the second floor."

Pansy glanced one more time at the growing pool of blood on the witch's midriff. After all she'd gone through to save this blasted woman's life the first time round, she wasn't about to let her die now.

"Then we'll go there," she said decisively. "Can you walk?"

* * *

...

* * *

Hermione could walk, as it turned out, but not very quickly, and Pansy had to support her the whole way. She cast a disillusionment charm on them both, hoping if they kept moving and stayed quiet, they'd make it to the second floor without incident.

The foyer was silent now, the fighting having moved deeper into the Ministry. Bodies littered the floor, puddles of blood glinting, dark and oily, on the shiny black marble. It appeared to be mostly Death Eaters among the dead, although some looked more like bystanders who hadn't been able to run quite fast enough. Possibly a few Order members. It was hard to tell, and Pansy didn't want to look too closely, lest she spot a familiar face.

Her father. Blaise. _Fred_.

"Minimum casualties my arse," she said as they limped through the carnage. Hermione, to her credit, seemed equally pissed by the situation.

"What did I tell them?" she muttered angrily, jerking Pansy to a halt to kick at a pile of rubble. "Fucking arseholes."

Pansy rather agreed, but at that moment, a distant explosion sent dust trickling down over their heads like sand in an hourglass. It was, she decided, time to get out of the open.

Taking the seldom-used staircase at the far end of the foyer meant they made it to the second floor without meeting any fighters—Death Eater or otherwise. Pansy propped a pale and sweaty Hermione up against the wall, instructed her to hex anyone that came round the corner and crept alone through the heavy double doors to her office.

It was, she discovered, curiously empty. No Death Eaters. No Order members. Certainly no Hannah Abbott.

A battle had, however, very evidently taken place. Pansy had to step over the body of a snatcher near Yaxley's office, and there were several more slumped in the very furthest corner.

Pansy swallowed and returned for Hermione.

The woman was only semi-conscious. Pansy half guided, half hauled her into the office and managed to get her down on the floor behind a sturdy wooden desk.

"I'm going to find help," she said, crouching beside her. "Stay here."

Hermione blinked blearily up at her, then froze, staring eyes wide in horror at something beyond Pansy's shoulder.

"Look what we have _here_ ," drawled a voice that made her blood run cold. "A traitor and a mudblood."

Pansy turned, standing swiftly to find him blocking their exit. He was dressed in Death Eater black, that horrible silver mask hanging about his neck.

"Yaxley," she hissed.

He gave her a vindictive smirk.

"Traitor."

A flush of anger snapped her into action. She thrust out her wand, but he was ready for her—" _Expelliarmus!_ "—and it whipped from her grasp, hitting a desk across the room and skittering uselessly over the edge.

Defenceless now, she nevertheless met his gaze head on. Decided there and then that no matter what he did to her, no matter how he hurt her, she wouldn't show even the slightest _ounce_ of fear.

His eyes raked over her, thin lips curving into a sneer.

"I should have realised it was you," he said, voice thick with contempt.

"But you didn't." Pansy gave him a triumphant smile, designed to provoke. "I was right under your nose the whole time, and you never even _noticed_."

Yaxley's nostrils flared with anger.

"I'm going to have so much fun with you," he promised, pointing at her with his wand. "Just you wait, sweetheart. You'll be begging me to finish you off."

She met his eyes—held her head high, jaw set, as she anticipated the inevitable curse. Whatever it was, it would hurt. But she wouldn't cry. She wouldn't beg.

 _No matter what he did._

"I'm waiting," she said insolently, because if she was going to die, she'd do it like a Slytherin. Proudly, and on _her_ terms. She cocked a brow. "Or aren't you man enough?"

Yaxley's face twisted with rage, and he lunged.

" _Stupefy_!"

A jet of scarlet light hit the Death Eater from behind. He went down like a broken puppet, sprawling face-first on the ground before her.

Pansy gaped, shock leaching through her veins.

What… what just…?

And then Fred was racing across the office towards her. Pansy simply gazed at him.

"Pansy!" He caught her wrist, dragged her into a fierce embrace. "Bloody hell," he breathed into her hair. "I thought he was going to kill you."

Pansy clung to him, legs suddenly very wobbly. He had saved her. He had _saved_ her.

"I think he was," she said, voice muffled by his collar. He tightened his grip on her, as if at any moment she might be snatched from his grasp.

"I told you to find somewhere safe," he said crossly, although she could tell it was mostly for show.

She tilted her head back to look up at his handsome familiar face.

"I tried," she said wrily, "but I got a little distracted. Oh!" Her eyes widened suddenly, as she remembered Hermione bleeding on the floor.

But Fred had brought company, and George and a light-haired woman Pansy vaguely recognised as Hannah Abbott were already attending to her.

The woman herself was pale-faced but awake, George holding her protectively to his chest. She grimaced as Hannah passed her wand over the wound, murmuring a gentle incantation. But then her eyes veered up to meet Pansy's.

A moment of gratitude passed between them, words neither would ever say aloud hanging in the air.

"Is it over?" she asked softly, as Fred slipped his arms around her waist.

"Yeah." He ducked his head to press a kiss to her shoulder. "He's gone. They're all gone."

Relief washed over her.

It was over. She was _f_ _ree_.

"I knew it!" a familiar voice crowed suddenly, and she glanced over, startled, to find Blaise had appeared out of nowhere. He'd evidently joined in the battle; his face was smudged with dirt, his robes charred around the edges. There was, however, the _most_ shit-eating grin she'd ever seen on anyone plastered across his face. "I _knew_ you were shagging someone."

She blinked at him.

"You—how…?"

"You weren't the only mole in the Ministry, Parkinson," he said, tapping his nose. "I wasn't quite in the thick of it like you were, working for your father. But at least I wasn't hooking up with my handler every chance I got."

 _Her father._ Pansy turned to Fred, breath catching in her throat. He'd promised her he'd do all he could to protect him, but she knew, in the heat of the battle…

"He's fine," Fred said. "He surrendered. He's safe."

She exhaled in relief, twisting so she could press her cheek to his chest and wrap her arm round his middle.

"Are you hurt?" he asked softly. She could feel his body tense against hers. "Did he—did he hurt you?"

"No," she said. "You got here in time."

He let out a breath.

"Good. _Good_."

Blaise was still smirking at them, so she pulled a face at him, making him laugh silently and shake his head.

The room was so quiet. _Peace_ , Pansy realised. It was peace, settling on them all like a layer of snow.

Hannah had finished patching Hermione up, and all three simply sat, Hermione and George's hands linked between them. Hannah kept sneaking glances at Blaise, who kept sneaking them right back.

As she watched them, a half-smile tugging at her lips, she felt Fred reach up to tuck her hair behind her ear, felt his other arm tighten around her. His body was solid and warm against her, and she took more comfort from it than she felt was probably natural.

But he had saved her life, and not just today. She wanted to tell him how much he'd come to mean to her, how much she loved him, but she couldn't find the words.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for saving me."

He seemed to understand, seemed to hear the depth in her voice, because he leant down and brushed a kiss to her head.

"Thank you for letting me."


	5. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

* * *

They bought the pub—that ramshackle shell of a building where it all began.

The Muggle owner of the land had been incredulous that such a young couple would want to bury themselves away in the wild, lonely highlands, but perhaps he saw the haunted look in their eyes; he shook them warmly by the hand and wished them all the best.

Mrs Weasley, however, hadn't been about to let them get away so easily. With a mix of magic and plain hard work, she and the rest of Fred's siblings helped them patch up the pub, scrubbing away layers of dust and grime until the walls shone white in the sunlight and the building wasn't in danger of falling about their heads.

And then, after they'd christened it with several shots of firewhiskey, after the rest of the Weasley clan had staggered one by one into the Floo, Fred and Pansy sat together on the doorstep, drinks in hand, to watch the sun go down over the loch.

"I thought," Fred said after a little while, "that you wanted to go away."

When Pansy glanced at him sideways, he shrugged.

"You know," he said, expression guarded. "Somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, where you can forget all of this ever happened?"

 _Oh_. She remembered their conversation now, right in this very spot; it seemed almost a lifetime ago.

"We _are_ in the middle of nowhere," she pointed out, making him tut and roll his eyes.

"You know what I mean," he said. He'd smiled as he said it, but there was a hint of tension in his voice, and she realised that he really was concerned that she might leave him. That she might decide he reminded her too much of the terrible things they'd witnessed, and walk away.

She cupped his cheek in her hand.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promised. "Not without you, anyway."

He exhaled, eyes softening visibly.

"Good," he said. "Because I'd follow you anywhere, love. You know that right?"

She kissed him then, because why would she want to go anywhere else, when everything she had endured, all that they had been through, it had led her to this moment? To _him_?

She drew back, reached up to brush that scruffy red hair from his face, and smiled.

"Right here is fine with me."

* * *

 **THE END**

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please drop me a review to let me know if you did._


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